


The Ties That Bind

by zetsubou_hana (Sakura_no_Miko)



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Study, Drama, Family, Gen, Kink Meme, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-09
Updated: 2008-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakura_no_Miko/pseuds/zetsubou_hana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles Edgeworth discovers that there was more to the relationship between Manfred Von karma and his father than he ever suspected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: Night 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Fandom: Phoenix Wright  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Warnings: complicated timeline, lots of angst  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Phoenix Wright or any of its characters. I make no profit from this fan-work.
> 
> Written for [The Phoenix Wright Kink Meme (Part 8)](http://teagueful.livejournal.com/35657.html) and originally posted [here](http://teagueful.livejournal.com/35657.html?thread=9659721#t9659721)
> 
> _prompt: Gregory is von Karma's son: Gregory Edgeworth is actually Manfred von Karma's firstborn son -- whom he disowned upon his choice to become a defense attorney._
> 
> Puts a totally new spins a new twist on raising Miles to become a prosecutor, hm? :3

  
It was a job better left to Franziska, Miles told himself as he tried to prepare, tried to strengthen himself for the inevitably painful task of going through the Von Karma mansion now that Von Karma (strange, after all those years that he was always 'Von Karma,' never 'teacher' or 'master' or 'father') was never coming back. His execution was scheduled only three days away, and Miles had needed to get away…somewhere, anywhere. Franziska would be in a worse state than he was, even if she never showed it. After all, Von Karma was still her father.

It was a horrible night. A winter storm was passing through, pelting everything with cold and rain. But at least it would be enough to keep him here, even when his heart was being torn in half — half quailing in terror in this dark mansion and half still there, waiting for the chance to scream and cry in vengeful triumph over Von Karma's death. He'd refused to stay. He couldn't let that…thing inside him out.

Even if here he was less than nothing, travelling among shadows and ghosts.

So he walked the familiar halls, void of servants, void of noise, void of everything he hazily remember from the short times he'd been there. Between boarding schools and his early career, he was rarely at the mansion. He barely knew Von Karma, now that he thought of it. He'd grown up with Franziska, to some extent, but for Von Karma's wife or any other children, he knew nothing.

"Master Miles," came a familiar voice.

Miles couldn't help but smile. "Miss Maria," he said fondly, the old woman one of the few servants he had ever cared for. "Why are you still here, at your age?" Little wonder even a terrified, guilt-ridden boy would warm up to the old matron. She was a force of nature unto herself, a caretaker, a mother to him and Franziska both.

"Why do you still call me Miss at my age?" she replied, old eyes twinkling, but she suddenly coughed. For a moment, she swayed on her feet, and Miles ran to grab her arm.

"Miss Maria, you should be convalescing," he said gently, but the old woman waved him off.

"Nonsense, Master Miles. I've worked my entire life here." She chuckled. "I stay until this place is gone or I am."

Edgeworth cracked a smile at her old stubbornness. "Franziska isn't here yet?" At her solemn head shake, he took a breath. It felt…strange. That all this which had once been Von Karma's was now…nothing. No one's. Where could he even begin to unravel this life?

"I suppose I'll start," he said finally. "Tell me when she arrives, please."

"Yes, Master Miles." He watched as she slowly (much more slowly than he remembered) walked back towards the servant's quarters. She deserved better than this, but, if nothing else, Von Karma knew loyalty. He would never have taken in anyone with less than dog-like loyalty. If Miss Maria said she'd be here 'til her death, she would.

Bedrooms. Guest rooms. The library. All things he only vaguely knew. To open the closed doors was…terrifying and freeing all at once. And then…the master bedroom. Von Karma's own room, the one he had never know anyone to have entered but one old servant who had died long ago.

It was…simple. Little lavishes hidden into mundane things — the golden embroidery on otherwise plain white silk sheets on the bed, the shining, but otherwise barren mahogany desk, the cheap glass ornament that hid a remarkably detailed and accurate figure of the mansion under fake snow. Simple. Subtle. So unlike Von Karma.

But what caught his eyes were the paintings. Enormous ones. He could see Franziska's triumphant smile at the age of 13 astride older, fading images of women he'd never known. And even…one of him, in the same outfit he'd worn on the day he'd taken on his first case as the perfect prosecutor.

Who knew Von Karma was so…nostalgic, he thought, bitterly.

It wasn't until he began to open one of the desk drawers, locked from the inside with some unknown key, that he saw it. Back, behind the largest bookshelf. Something…glittering.

He edged his fingers into the darkness behind the old wood. When his fingers met something hard, he strained with all of his might to try and grab the thing. Hs fingertips brushed it, and he felt movement. For a moment, he was horrified that he had pushed it beyond his reach, but the next swipe gave him a firm hold on it.

It was a painting.

All the others had frames of pale, beautifully stained wood. But this one…this was gold! Ornate engravings caught his eye. In tiny miniatures, he saw a large tree, and two people. A snake. The round of an apple. A sword. Fire. It was the story of Paradise. And at the bottom edge, beyond the sword and the fire, there was now a baby alongside the couple.

But within it…nothing but blackness. Black paint covered every inch of the canvas. He scratched it lightly in the corner, and a bit of black peeled off, unearthing a tiny speck of dulled blue. Somehow, this surprised him less. He was just surprised this wasn't his picture. So, there was someone in this life Von Karma hated even more than him.

"Miss Maria!" he called loudly. She was the only servant left. He was ashamed of himself, but curious. Who was it that caused Von Karma so much hatred in the past? The thought of the old man in pain was a poor salve for his mind, but he was willing to take it.

The old woman walked slowly. He heard her down the hall, her fragile body breathing much too hard. "Wait!" he called, not wanting to stress her any further. "I'll bring it out. Stay there."

The old painting was surprisingly heavy for its size.

"No, Master Miles, what was it that's got you in such a…" Her eyes went wide. She _trembled_.

"Miss Maria," Miles said softly, narrowing his eyes. You know what this is?"

"Nothing," she said. "I don't know anything, Master Miles." But the way her eyes were darting made him suspicious. It made him want to know more.

"I was planning to have it fixed," Miles said neutrally, watching her. She froze for a moment, casting a fearful eye at the picture.

"Master Von Karma would — " she started to object.

"Von Karma is gone," he snapped. The reproachful look in her eyes made him cringe. "Sorry," he said, looking away shamefully. He looked at the blackened portrait hanging limply in his hand. "I'm just…I just want to know _who_ is hidden under here." He looked at the painting almost longingly. It was as if something was calling to him.

"It was a bad memory for Master Von Karma. Something you'd do well to throw away along with the rest of him." The coldness in her voice shocked him. He'd never heard Miss Maria speak so boldly, or so ill of anyone.

If it causes Von Karma pain… he thought briefly. No. No, he wasn't going down that road. He was just…curious.

"Even so, I wish to know," Miles said. "I'll send for the painters tomorrow."

"Please, Master Miles," she tried again. "It is really nothing. I don't know why Master kept it."

"I just want to see, Miss Maria." Thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was getting worse.

"Master Miles…"

Miles was starting to feel irritated. There was a limit to loyalty. All he wanted was to see what sort of picture Von Karma kept locked away. She didn't understand. She was so pure-hearted, even after working all these years under that devil. Not like him. No…deep in his heart, no matter how much he tried to stop himself, he was thirsting for vengeance. The painting was a little appeasement, at least. A little rebellion. A little schaenfreude.

"Master Von Karma — "

Always Von Karma! Didn't she care about him anymore? "Master Von Karma will be _dead_ ," Miles shouted. "And then it won't matter what he cares about!"

The old woman, the one he'd thought of as close to a mother as he could have, stared at him. For the first time in his life, he swore he knew what terror looked like in someone's eyes.

"Oh, Master Miles…put it away!" she said suddenly. Her hand suddenly went to clutch at her neck, grabbing at a chain under her shirt. Her old fingers clutched at a tiny crucifix, and her eyes were wide. "Put it away, put it away," she cried. "Or Master Von Karma will…!" Her voice fell into a low sob.

Miles dropped the canvas to the ground, and raced to put his arms around the old woman. "Von Karma is gone," he said quickly. "He can't do anything to you." He eyed the woman nearly having a panic attack in his arms. She'd nearly mauled the buttons off her shirt, and…Miles' eyes widened at the sight of dark scars around her neck. "Miss Maria, those marks…"

She looked up at him. "Don't look, Master Miles. Don't look at it." She cast a dark gaze at the fallen portrait. "You don't want to know…"

 _But I do_ , something whispered inside him. He tried to quash the voice down. He of all people knew the price of uncovering the truth. Leave it alone. If he'd have left things alone, he…

If he'd have left things alone, Von Karma might have gotten away with murder.

"Shhh, shhh," Miles said awkwardly. He was starting to feel sick. "Miss Maria, your neck," he tried again.

For a moment, she stared up at him with blank eyes. "You know," she whispered, so low Miles barely heard her. Suddenly, her eyes rolled back, and Miles was fighting to keep her from falling to the floor.

He almost kicked in the door to the nearest room, trying to pull the servant to the bed. Her breathing was shallow. He called the ambulances, but they were moving slowly, too slowly in the storm. "Miss Maria! Hang on, please." Was his voice so pathetic and panicked?

She cracked an eye open. "I'm sorry, Master Miles, I don't know what came over me."

"Miss Maria — "

"It's nothing, Master Miles. Just an old and tired woman." Another wracking cough. "You just gave this old heart a shock." She smiled faintly.

"I'm so sorry." Miles felt his eyes sting. His voice was choking. What had possessed him? The darkness in his heart…it even made him hurt Miss Maria.

He was as guilty as Von Karma had said. They were the same. He could never get away!

"I'll burn it," he said. "I'll destroy it, whatever it is."

"No, Master Miles."

He looked up. She was still clutching at her chain…no. No, it was the marks.

 _You know_ , she'd whispered. "Did…did Von Karma…?" he managed to choke out. The way she looked at him…was all the answer he needed.

"He made me swear never to say that name again." Her eyes were drifting shut, her breathing getting raspy.

"Name?" Miles repeated.

"Of the man in the portrait." She pinched herself, grimacing, her breathing hard, harsh.

"Rest," Miles tried to say, but his mouth felt like cotton. Stop…

"I never did," she continued. "Until one night…"

He heard noise, from far away. Sirens. People shouting. The large doors of the Von Karma mansion being slammed open. Thunder.

"The night you came…"

People were suddenly rushing in. Questions were being shouted, orders given, as the old woman was pulled on to a stretcher.

Hours later, it seemed, hours of talking without thinking, walking without waking, and, finally, the slow realization that she would be okay, and finally, Miles was able to think on what she had said.

The mansion was empty. Cold. Quiet, if not for the storm raging outside.

The lights flickered as he walked back to that hallway, to the fallen piece of gold and black.

Someone was hidden there, beneath that paint. Someone whose name had never been spoken until he came.

Who was the man? How were they connected? And why would Von Karma's hatred enemy come back the night of his greatest victory? He had to know.

Whatever the cost.


	2. Part 1: Night 1

  
It took a lot of money to have anyone even attempt to work on the painting. It was decades old, they told him, and the paint was so delicate. It would easily be ruined if they tried to restore it, and certainly if they tried so quickly…

Miles paid them double to shut their mouths and work.

Hours later, at an obnoxiously bright midday (especially give last night's storm), they called him. They had barely uncovered a signature, but there was no way they could go any farther with any chance of success. More importantly than that, they recognized the signature.

In between their amazed rambling, Miles was not surprised that the artiste was a famous one, who rarely did work for anyone. What surprised him was that the old man was still alive, living in hermitage a few cities over. It was more than he could hope for.

His red sports car wasn't meant for the countryside, let alone such a desperate drive through old dirt roads and scattering chickens. But the urge, the thirst to know the secret of the painting drove him onward. It was just a piece of metal, anyway.

He found the old shack, otherwise unmarked, and banged on the door. The mud clung to his good shoes. No answer, so he banged again. He'd tracked down harder suspects before.

"I want to talk to you," he shouted, when it became clear that no one intended to open the door, or even look out the windows. "I want to know what you painted for Manfred Von Karma."

Silence.

Miles felt that uncharacteristic anger rising in him again. The world hated him, didn't it? He was marked now. Marked for causing the deaths of both of his fathers. If he raised his hand to his head, would the mark of a sinner be there?

"My name is Miles Edgeworth!" he tried again. "Von Karma's son! I want to know — "

The door creaked open. "Edgeworth?" a voice rasped. "Von Karma's son?" A low chuckle. "Why have you, of all people, come here?"

Miles went to grab the doorknob. For something that looked like it was rotting off, it held firmly. He pushed open the door. It was dark inside.

"My old eyes don't work well anymore," came that raspy voice again. "But you are not Von Karma's son." The tone turned accusatory.

"His adopted son," Miles corrected, feeling foolish. "Miles Edgeworth." He held out his hand and tried not to flinch when a withered, tree-like hand reached to grasp it tightly.

His eyes were adjusting, slowly. The old man was hunched over, and his eyes had a milky sheen to them. His beard was white and his head bald, and his clothes were old and ratty. He looked like a living corpse.

"Oh?" The man asked. "Then who was your father?"

"Gregory Edgeworth, the defense attorney." Miles didn't know why he felt compelled to add that last bit. He wasn't worthy of saying his father's name anymore, let alone his beloved occupation.

"Edgeworth, eh?" Another low chuckle. "Best keep that quiet. That name still has a certain…resonance in these parts, even if it is a dead family."

Dead family? Before he could ask, the man shuffled back towards another room, extending a long, bony hand for Miles to follow. "Rarely did I keep the sketches for any of my commissioned paintings," the old man said, wheezing slightly. "No soul in them. Just money. But, ah…Von Karma's son, I remember."

"Von Karma's son?" Miles repeated.

The old man stopped and looked at him, though his dead eyes barely moved. Then he cackled. "Why, little lord Von Karma," he laughed. "Manfred's precious firstborn son."

"Von Karma has a son?" It was too much to wrap his mind around.

"Had, boy, _had_ a son." The man found an old closet, covered in spider web, and pulled out an old and dusty book. Miles peered over the hunched shoulders.

That…that was the _Madame of the Souls at Banquet!_ The _Raja of the Seven Deserts!_ Paintings he had grown up seeing through glass and million dollar security. This man was…

Finally, he pulled out a yellow, withered piece of paper. Miles could barely see the etch of pencil, or perhaps charcoal, in the dim lighting.

"Take it," the old man said. "Knowing him, it's probably the only copy left in existence."

How would he know…? "The painting was destroyed by Von Karma," Miles said. "Do you know why?" Destroyed, but he still kept it. The thought nudged the back of Miles' mind.

"I've heard…" the old man started. "No, all I can say for sure is that Von Karma disowned his son years ago. After that…well, you can imagine."

Yes, he could.

"Thank you," he said hastily. "If there's anything I can do to repay you."

"Don't come back," the old man said. "Just leave an old man to his peace." He got up and started shuffling back towards the door, muttering, "If you weren't Miss Edgeworth's son, I wouldn't have even let you in…"

He was nearly out the door before he realized. Miss… "You knew my mother?" he asked quickly, before the old man could shut the door completely.

The old man stared at him for a moment. "Von Karma can tell you that," he muttered. "I'm sure you'll find out." Then the door was shut, as if it had never been opened.

Miles almost stumbled away from the shack. Something was here. The son, his parents…they all knew something. Every one of them knew something!

The bright sunset made him wince, and his hand nearly crumpled the old paper. In the light, he could see a young man's face, with handsome features. Sharp, bright eyes caught his attention, and he felt an odd prickle on the back of his neck. Something about the man seemed…familiar. Was it just the connection of blood? Or had he somehow met the man, perhaps in those childhood days he could barely remember?

Franziska might know something. And Miss Maria in the hospital. Surely, this son would want to know about Von Karma's death? He felt a bit of hesitation. Disowned. But what could the son have possibly done to get disowned from Von Karma…

Von Karma would never tell him anything.

He threw open the door almost viciously, sinking into leather sheets, disgustingly hot against his clothes. The picture was haphazardly tossed into the passenger seat. He stared at it. A handsome face. The face of Von Karma's _son_. His real, flesh-and-blood son.

So that was it, that lingering feeling all these years that something was wrong. That _he_ was wrong.

He could never have competed against the real thing.

And Karma had stolen him from his real father, for what? To serve as a ghost of the son he threw away? No, more like another experiment. And now he'd been thrown away too. Worthless failure.

For a moment, he wanted to tear the damned page to shreds. Destroy him. And maybe then, he could…

Patricide, the sin of killing one's own father. Was he now to add fratricide to his sins?

Worthless, he mocked himself. You never had Von Karma's heart to begin with. Not you, not anybody…not even this real son, if Von Karma threw him away so easily as he did you.

No. The thought was illuminating. No. This son, this _brother_ was more like him than anyone else in this world (perhaps, maybe, Franziska, though her gender and blood had sheltered her from the worst of Von Karma's wrath). No, he should find this man. He had to still be alive. He had to. And maybe…maybe he could understand this blackness that was eating Miles up inside, from the very moment he'd realized that Von Karma truly hated him.

But how? Von Karma would die laughing at him if he begged for scraps of information like a worthless dog begging at his master's table. And Von Karma had made it utterly clear what he thought of Miles.

Better off dead. Marked with the scar of sin. Cursed. Maybe he was.

Was there nothing he could do? Records. Servants. No, no, Von Karma would have destroyed everything. Von Karma only trusted Von Karma.

That was it!

He remembered, one night, when he'd stumbled into one of the many locked rooms by accident. There were so many rooms, and he'd only known that the ones that were locked were Von Karma's private rooms. Studies. Rooms for entertaining certain guests.

But that night…it was a gusty storm, one that shook the mansion, so much like an earthquake…

The lights flickered on a storming night, and he was scared. Crying. Alone. So he'd wandered towards the only light he could see, peeking out from gigantic doors that seemed so like the gates of a prison cell.

He was sobbing, beating at the doors. "Let me in!" he'd sobbed, the terror of shadows and strange noises filling his heart with horror. Beating, beating with his tiny fists, until suddenly the door swung open and he fell flat on his face.

Books. Journals. Dozens of them. And Von Karma, pen in hand, suddenly snarling at him to get out. The angry slap of a fist against his face, and Miss Maria, screaming, running up to grab him and drag him out. She'd tended the black eye, swollen shut, and told him never to go back to Von Karma's study.

But he remembered.

He could open those old drawers up now.


	3. Part 3: Night 2

  
Miles refused to think any more deeply on what was pushing him forward.

He'd gone through room after room, breaking the locks. He was alone now. Alone in that black mansion.

Where was Franziksa, he wondered on the drive back. Surely she knew…no, it was probable that she had no idea either. It was a long way back for her to come. And maybe she didn't want to.

The other servants had left, probably glad of the excuse to escape Von Karma's clutches. And so it was only him. And yet…some times, when he looked out of the corner of his eye, it seemed as if he saw a flickering. Some old ghost of the mansion, he thought cynically.

He wouldn't let himself hope for the protection of a spirit, or the guidance of Fate. Not even the happy memories of his father to cheer him along. No. He trusted in what had guided him all along: vengeance. Von Karma was going to die, yes, but he was damned if he wasn't going to do everything possible to make him suffer beforehand. And then, maybe, this fire burning in his chest would go away, the fire that had driven him through school and court and countless sins. He would make sure it was Von Karma's Hell fire after this.

His memories were blurry, weakened by suppression and a child's skewed view. So he took pleasure in smashing the locks, jamming them with screwdrivers, anything to push those doors open. Luxury awaited him, rooms of gold and silk, each one beautiful as Paradise and cold and empty as nothingness. The only Paradise he would ever know, he thought bitterly. The one he saw through fire and swordpoint, already having been cast out long ago by Manfred Von Karma's blood-red apples.

He smashed another door, and…

Ages-old terror sputtered through him. This was the one. As his foot crossed the threshold, he was seized with a brief paralysis. The memories of pain. Fear. His eyes stung, starting into the room, more beautiful than any other. Bright, shining glass windows peeked out, allowing the heavens to illuminate the room. A single, handsome chair, the long white of an old-fashioned quill atop a desk of rich, red mahogany and gold. And everywhere else, tall, towering bookshelves with ornate red-and-golden locks.

Miles was frozen. It was like a dream. To him, this was sanctuary, sacred. A room he would die to have for himself. To bask in the sunlight on a spring day and simply write, or read…to gaze into the heavens and hear the ancient poets echoing in his mind…

And each lock, each secret…this was as good as seeing Von Karma's very heart and soul.

He felt cold. The terrified child in him begged him not to enter. The better angel of his nature begged him not to destroy this sanctity.

He ignored them both, driven by the fire that was scorching him.

And as soon as he moved on leg, he felt both the voices in his head fall silent.

His hand traced the lock on the largest bookshelf. It was edged in gold, with two large diamonds on either side of a single keyhole. It was perfectly rectangular, save for the protruding locking mechanism, and made bright-red metal he couldn't identify. It hung on a single, silver bar across the two handles of the bookshelf. He went to touch it, and pulled a startled hand back.

It was _warm_. And he swore he felt a faint pulse.

No. He was hallucinating. After all, it had been a sunny day, and surely, from the windows…

You're a fool, Miles, he muttered in his head, imagining Franziska's gentle chastising.

He went to the desk. Von Karma had been gone for weeks. He doubted he'd find the key, but it was worth a look. The desk was surprisingly open. Fine paper and stationary. Pens and quills. Ink. Nothing of interest to him.

And then…a strange noise. Miles eyed the drawer he'd just opened. He only saw papers, but… He moved it. That odd, decidedly _hollow_ sound again, and a very faint _clink_ of metal.

He pulled the papers out, throwing them on the floor, and rapped at the base of the drawer. It was unmistakable now. Using the screwdriver, he stabbed as hard as he could, smashing the wood apart. He barely avoided the splinters.

But there it was. A large, ornate key. He held it up to the starlight. A chill went through him. Got you, Von Karma, he crowed in triumph.

A sudden noise made him whirl around. "Miles!" He heard faintly. A woman's voice. He left the room, heading for the railing, and gazed over to the lower floor. A tiny figure was looking around anxiously. Franziska. Franziska was here. It calmed the heart he hadn't even realized was racing.

"Franziska!" he called back. "Up here!" She waved back to him, and started towards the stairs.

The key lay heavily in his hand, tempting him to use it. He should have waited for her, but his curiosity was aching. Surely, he could just open up the shelves as he waited for her. Even a few extra minutes to sort through what probably amounted to _volumes_ of Von Karma's journals would help him unravel this mystery.

His mind thus abated, he went back to the towering bookshelf, and easily slid the key into the hole. With a gentle click, he turned it…

A noise frighteningly like a gunshot rang out, and his frozen hands and feet couldn't even instinctively move out of the way. It was the elevator all over again, he thought in an instant, and this time, it was going to be him who died.

He found himself thrown back, smashing against the well-crafted desk, his head suddenly rolling around on his neck, and pain in every limb. The smell of smoke clouded his senses.

He wasn't able to piece together the obvious until much later: that Von Karma, in his paranoia, had planted a trap within his private study. Nor that it was his own rash actions that had triggered the trap. That the key, rather than unlocking anything, had set off a very small, and very dangerous bomb in the shape of a lock.

He couldn't even fathom where the fire was.

It was everywhere.

He was rushing, crying out, trying to move his lead-heavy limbs, forcing himself towards the flames and the door. His only thought was that he had to do something, anything…or the mystery would be lost forever. He smashed a wobbling leg against what was left of the bookshelf, flames biting at his suit without him noticing. With his free hands, he reached, he grabbed…

…and, beyond the terrible pain of the fire against his skin, he managed to grab a handful of books and tear them away, sending them flying towards the ground in what he hoped were safer places.

Someone screamed. Fire? His hazy mind supplied, dull and dying as it was. He fell to the ground, vaguely remembering that it was better, and crawled back towards the desk. His last sight was of the beautiful, but foggy windows. Fog.

Fog, whirling and moving. He thought of those eyes again. The eyes of the rough sketch. It was almost as if the fog was smiling at him. Almost as if those eyes were watching over him, familiar and distant, hiding up in the stars.

The smoke whirled for a moment, forming a tiny whirlwind that dipped towards him.

On instinct, perhaps wanting to shield himself against the aggressive cloud of smoke, his fingers crawled, and bumped up against leather. He grabbed a single book, clutching it to his chest.  
He wouldn't let it go.

Dimly, he was aware of voices. Bodies.

He'd always expected to be alone in Hell, he thought, drifting off to blackness.


	4. Part 4: Late Night Day 2

  
"Patricide, Miles."

Miles hung his head. Even with the thick glass between them, Von Karma…

"I would have thought your own father would have taught you better."

Each word was a knife, and he had nothing to shield him. "I didn't kill my father. You did," he whispered, but his voice was appallingly soft and weak.

"That doesn't matter, Miles, and you know it." Von Karma's smile was terrifying, the smile of a blood-thieving vampire, or a human lycanthrope. This was the terror he had called Father and Mentor and Master.

"It doesn't matter who pulled that trigger, or whose bullet hit his body. You and I know the truth. We both pulled the trigger that day."

Miles wanted to object. No. Wright had proven it. No. It wasn't him. It was Von Karma. And that lying bastard knew it. It wasn't him. It wasn't him. It wasn't him.

"Your heart knows the truth, Miles. No matter you do to me, you will never end your own guilt. You will only add more sins to your heart. Do you hear me, Miles? You are killing your father all over again."

No…! No!

"You are not a child any longer, Miles. You are a murderer as much as you think I am."

He was shaking. Weak. He was so weak. Why couldn't he leave?

"You are nothing, Miles. Another failed experiment. I should have known. You were already far too tainted. And there is no one who can ever begin to reach my perfection. No matter how hard you strive, no matter what you do, you will always be nothing but a failure. A clone. You exist only to illuminate how much I have attained the unattainable."

"You are a fool, Miles, to think anything would change if you came here. You, with those pathetic tears in your eyes. Did you think I would pity you?"

"Did you think I cared for you, Miles?"

"Did you think you'd find forgiveness?"

Miles screamed. He knocked over the cheap chair and ran, Von Karma's mocking laughter following him.

Why had he even tried?

He nearly fell to his knees in the bathroom, eyes burning, throat screaming, barely able to breathe. Alone, like always.

When he brushed back his hair, he swore he saw a black mark on his forehead. The mark of Cain. The mark of a murderer.

Patricide, Miles.

He chuckled, stiffly walking out of the jail. Crazed laughter. Nothing but a failure. A murderer.

At least now he understood.

Miles awoke with a start. He couldn't see, his limbs wouldn't move, his breaths were raspy.

He fought down panic. A low, annoying beep rang out constantly. His body was covered in cloth.

When he could finally see, he realized he was in a hospital bed. Right. The fire.

"Miles?" a woman's voice rang out. "You — you foolish fool of the most foolish fool's most foolish fools!"

"Fuh…" he tried to say, his tongue thick in his mouth, and rasped with smoke inhalation.

Her arms were warm, if a little painful, around him. She was crying, softly. Franziska…how could she even look at him after what he'd done?

She called the doctors, and the police, though he couldn't speak to them yet. Burns on his body that would take weeks to heal, and probably scar. Smoke beating his lungs into pulp. And so much damage to the mansion.

Still, he was lucky to be alive.

That was when he saw it, cradled in Franziska's arms. The book.

When all was quiet in the early morning, he used all of his strength to beg her to read it to him.


	5. Part 5: Early Morning, Day 3

  
Franziska's voice — the familiar lilt of it, the soft accent — was a familiar comfort.

Brokenly, he'd explained to her what he had found. Even if her worried eyes looked at him, clearly questioning his sanity, she nodded. "Father had me when he was 48," she said. "And my sister a few years before that. But…anything beyond that, I don't know." Her eyes twitched as she calculated in her head. "It is possible Father had other children." Still, her expression was sad when she looked at him. "But, Miles…why?"

He couldn't answer her.

The journal was definitely Von Karma's. They both knew his writing, his style. Listings of numbers they might decode into dates later. Names marked only with initials. Short, clipped sentences, and only the barest hints of emotions.

 _060890-1908  
Met with W— P— today. He is still destroying foolish young defense attorneys. Even if he is he second best prosecutor here, he is still nothing but a bleating toad. But he has his uses when I need assistance. He seems to take some sort of servile pride in working under me. A natural example of the underlying principles of inferior breeding. No matter how confident his education and mannerisms have made him, he is unable to lose his naturally submissive place in the face of a superior man._

 _061390-1030  
Case against M— G— went perfectly, as always. The fool couldn't even form a coherent sentence in defense of his fool of a client. Case finished in less than ten minutes. That imbecile's throat-clearing makes it substantially more difficult to finish in the preferred under five mark. Why am I forced to waste my time? Perhaps I should address to the judge a proposal wherein those of us with superior skills can skip this useless phase of court instead of wasting our time with such grossly incompetent defense attorneys._

 _083190-1438  
G— returns to full classes at H— University today. He bid me farewell this morning with an alarming amount of emotion. No matter how I train him, he still possesses the weaknesses of the frail and overly emotional woman he considered 'mother'.  
Although only in his second year, G— has already progressed to the fourth year classes. I expect nothing less of a Von Karma._"

Franziska paused, and Miles let out a low breath. It was something. G— Von Karma.

She cleared her throat and continued.

 _Advanced Studies in Criminal Profiling 438; passed with excellent recommendations for graduate studies  
Advanced Statistics 402; finished in half the required semester  
Legal Procedures 389; already receiving internship offers from all of the top legal fellowships  
…  
…_

Edgeworth felt a chill. If not for the notes, she could easily have been reading his own academic history — the very schedule Von Karma had placed him on not five years ago. There was a twitch of jealousy, remembering how hard he had struggled to maintain his perfect records in school, while this 'G—' seemed to have no problems at all.

He waved a hand to get Franziska's attention, and asked her to read only the entries pertaining to G—.

He had a face for this phantom. The first whisper of a name.

 _102690-2103  
G— has forwarded me a request to attend a prestigious awards ceremony, though he notes that it is mere foolishness and attendance is not required. He also notes dryly that we will soon have to procure a second room for all of the prestige they deign to rain upon him._

 _103191-1123  
G— is fine with standing still for the portrait I have commissioned from a man who would otherwise have lost his case. I instructed him well in how to establish an alibi with his beloved paintings. He may be of great use to me later with those excellent duplication skills.  
G— can recite each line of the legal code without blinking or letting his carefully-practiced smile slip. _

_111390-1123  
G— is not returning for the brief holiday, preferring to stay and study, rather than indulge in the foolishness of a free day dedicated to the gourmet._

 _121290-1956  
With the winter break approaching, G— has informed me that he will be finishing his final exams early at the behest of a classmate. He wishes to spend a few days visiting her home. A Miss V—, of the famous E— family.  
The E— family is wealthy and prestigious. They were war profiteers in the world wars, although it seems the later generations have grown softer. As of late, all news of the E— family centers on charity and other foolishness. They have grown to weak to punish the evil, and instead deign to try and "help" the weak who should die.  
Still, it may be a help to have the "friendship" of such a family. G—'s instincts are correct, as always. I expect no less of him._

 _011091-850  
A minor failure.  
However, for the sake of future experiments, it must be acknowledged.  
I admit that I was hasty in setting up these proceedings, and G— is flawed for it. With dogs, one knows that both the male and the bitch must be of highest caliber to produce a sufficient whelp. If one picks only the higher male, it leaves the whelp vulnerable to the weaknesses of the bitch.  
Such is G—'s flaw. His studies progress at an excellent rate, but he is to require glasses, sufficient for long hours of reading only.  
It is duly noted to pick a better bitch next time._

 _020191-1245  
G— has requested to bring V— E— here for a weekend. He wishes to show off his many prestigious awards to her, though…  
I am, perhaps, nervous. Men grow foolish over the affection of women. I fear this Miss V— may be nothing but a distraction. Though G— himself is the result of such foolishness, it would be unwise for him to fall into the same trap and poison the bloodline further. I shall have to observe this Miss V— though her reputation tells me she will be quite unsatisfactory as a companion for G—. _

_020491-0034  
V— E— is a worse trouble than I anticipated.  
She is beautiful. That I cannot fault her for. But she as the eyes of a temptress, and a self-righteous nature that might undo all that I have carefully raveled in G—'s mind.  
She believes in saving the world. Helping the poor and unfortunate.  
She speaks highly of the better callings of the world, and wishes to become a defense prosecutor.  
The way G— looks at her is troubling. As if he believes her foolishness, despite everything I have shown him, everything I have imparted on him since his birth.  
This V— has the same eyes as his mother.  
I should never have placed my hopes on perfecting what was created imperfect._

 _022291-2056  
G— has grown distant. I have taken him to court regularly. I have shown him the filthiest remnants of humanity, and those he would call "innocent." I have shown him how easy it is to corrupt men's hearts and steal their souls, by trickery, by lies and deceit.  
And after this, I tell him to look at me and tell me he believes in her words more than mine.  
He cannot.  
There is nothing in this world that is innocent or incorruptible. But there is always perfection._

 _031391-1623  
G— is a fool. He has learned nothing from me.  
I have found her letters in his room, and burned them before his eyes.  
His eyes have been opened, though he did not know they were shut.  
E— may be a powerful family, but they are not untouchable. No one exists who cannot be conquered._

 _041791-1239  
We reap what we have sown, and it is often those we trust most who betray us.  
The God who created in his own image felt such betrayal far more deeply, for he realized he could not remake himself in his own image within another soul.  
And so he cast them off from the Garden and his protection and gave them enmity._

 _051691-1034  
There is no G—. There never was. Only the silent mockery of my own image, laughing at me even as it plotted how best to betray me.  
I have received his letter.  
I will burn it, along with all of his things._

 _060191-0001  
For all their vast riches, E— chose M— G— as defense.  
G— watched me from the sidelines. He is as easy to read as a book. Is that anger, in those soulless eyes, as I crush the family he so adores beneath my feet like vermin?  
So, that is his choice.  
I am…disappointed. But I am not surprised.  
Perhaps it is better to weed him out now, before he humiliates himself in court with his emotions. Before the world learns that the name Von Karma is held by such a weakling.  
I have come to realize many things from this experiment, least of which is that I can never trust any of them to attain and keep perfection on their own.  
I have been a fool to think that mere guidance would lead G— to be my worthy heir. The taint of his blood and that woman were too much.  
I have no son._

Franziska's voice was growing raspy, and when he looked at her, startled from the dreamlike lull of her voice and the images flying through his head, he saw that her eyes were red.

"Is this…" she said slowly, "Really what Father thinks of us?"

Miles couldn't answer her.

She sniffled a moment. "I might have guessed," she said. "I knew my sister left because of him. And now, he's even turned against you, little brother." She smiled. "We'll have to stick together from now on."

"I want to find him," Miles rasped, and she nodded.

"We will bring honor back to the Von Karma name," she muttered. "Honor _and_ perfection, without any of those dirty tricks." She looked over at a clock. From when they'd started, several hours had passed, and it was just past dawn. "It won't be long, will it? Until he's…"

Miles realized with a start that today was the day Von Karma was to be executed, and he was, back in the city where he had sworn never to return to.

Perhaps he could just go back to sleep and wake up in a world without him.

"Ah!" Franziska's soft cry stopped him before he could test the idea. She'd dropped the journal as she got up to stretch. "There's something in here," she said. Miles strained to look. A single, loose paper had tumbled out.

"It has writing," Franziska explained. "'To my dearest Father,'" she read.

"Read it."

 _To my dearest Father,  
You will be unhappy with any explanation I give. I still recall what you told Victoria that night in January: that I had fought all my life to become a prosecutor, to make the world better by destroying the guilty._

 _No, Father._

 _It was you who decided I would follow in your footsteps. It is I who has decided to follow my own._

 _I love Victoria. I love her way of life, her charity, her pity. All these things you swore were weakness. I cannot see the world as you see it. When you see criminals, you see hatred, gluttony, things to be cleansed and lock away from the rest of us._

 _What I see, Father, is sadness. Anger. Men who deserve a chance to be forgiven._

 _But more than that, Father, I cannot condemn the innocent, even for the sake of perfection. You've grown blind, Father. Whatever led you down this path has been lost._

 _I will marry Victoria, and give up the name of Von Karma. And I will devote myself to defending those who have no one to defend them. I still believe in goodness, Father, no matter how much darkness and despair you have shown me._

 _And you will always be my Father, no mater how many bonds you break or how many times you try to throw me away. I will break your perfect record. I will never let you forget my existence, even if I do nothing to claim it. Throw me away. Bury me, as you buried my mother. No matter what you do, I will always return._

 _If you wish to know why I have taken these rash actions, you have the right to know._

 _My son will grow up without knowing your tyranny._

 _I put this letter here, in the journals you so treasure. I will not read them. But I say farewell to you the way you've always seen me: as nothing but a note in a long passage, barely remembered but obsessively treasured._

 _~G— E—_

Miles couldn't breathe.

Franziska noticed her brother had suddenly gone extremely pale. "Miles!" she said, dropping the letter to the floor. "Doctor!" she yelled frantically.

"The letter," Miles breathed. "Show me."

Franziska gave him an angry look, but she flung the yellowing paper at him anyway.

G.E.

Victoria.

Von Karma.

It was all a joke. An insane joke the universe was playing on him.

"Franziska," he rasped, a half-crazed smile on his face. "Do you know you're an aunt, Franziska?"

She looked at him with questioning eyes. "My sister has a child, so, yes," she remarked.

"Ah, no, no." Miles found himself wiggling the finger of his uninjured arm, imitating Von Karma. "No, Franzy…" he laughed again. "No…you're an aunt to _his_ son. His son, Franzy!"

"Miles, what's wrong with you?" She really looked scared now.

"I know who he is. I should have seen it. I should have _seen_ it."

"Who, Miles?"

"G— E—…" He paused. "Gregory Edgeworth." Another wild laugh. "Gregory Von Karma!"

"Miles!" Franziska said sharply. "It's not possible."

"Oh, it's possible. Perfectly possible." He motioned the paper. "That's his writing, Franzy! I know it is. That's my mother's name. Victoria. He took her name. Victoria Edgeworth is V— E—. That's…" He choked, suddenly, choked on his own disgusting fluids. "They're _his_ eyes…" he whispered brokenly. "My eyes…"

Double patricide, Von Karma had said.

The killing of one's own parents.

The doctor and nurses rushed in, drawn by all the shouting. He fell back, still laughing, still choking, as Franziska shot him a dirty look and refused any sedatives.

All this time, trying to be a true Von Karma, envying Franziska for so effortlessly being everything he could never be…all that time, trying to bury the memories of his "real" father…

The bile suddenly rose in his throat.

'My son will never know your tyranny.'

He grasped at the bed railings and heaved himself over, his body screaming, and threw up on the floor.

He had betrayed his father. He was unforgivable. After everything his father had done to escape, he willingly, desirously walked right back to Von Karma! He'd begged the man to teach him how to take revenge.

His father's murderer…

Von Karma was right. He was cursed. He could never be forgiven. Not only for betraying Von Karma, but his father, his mother…!

He ignored the panicking nurses trying to help him back into his bed, waved them away. "Franziska," he said hoarsely, ignoring how truly frightened she looked as she stared at him. "Tell them to call off the execution." She didn't move. "Tell them!" he barked. She started to shake her head. "Please," he begged, "I have to know."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"I'll try," Franziska said finally, and started out the room. "I don't care if I have to whip that Judge up out of his bed!"

Every bit of his was screaming. Burnt skin, barely even begun to heal, scraped against bandages, and his head was swimming, swimming in names and dates and figures, trying to make himself believe what he already knew in his heart: that he, Miles Edgeworth, was the grandson of Manfred Von Karma.


	6. Part 6: Day of the Execution

  
It all made sense. Too much sense.

And yet his mind was still spinning with all of it. He wondered if he was going mad, seeing things that no one else could see. He needed to speak to Von Karma, if only to know…it was true.

'I'm sorry, Father, Mother,' he said in his head. 'Sorry I was so weak. But I will avenge you the only way I can.'

He was oddly resigned. Resigned to so many things. Maybe he would need glasses too, in a few years. Maybe someone would be blacking out his portrait next.

Franziska brought him good news. It had taken a lot of work, but they had agreed to postpone the execution for a few hours, but that was all.

When Miles demanded a meeting, they tried to talk him out of it. He shouldn't be moved yet. He needed rest, and fluids, medication and new bandaging. He refused flat out, and Franziska, after a look at his determined face, agreed that she would not stop him. They made him take oxygen, an IV, all manner of things to impede his progress, subtly hoping to make him change his mind. He waved them off. For the drive, he would take it. But once he was there, all he would do would be to sit. And for that, for Von Karma, he refused to show any weakness.

He stared out the window, trying not to wince at the numbed, distant pain in his arm and legs. His suit had saved him from the worst, but even with painkillers, he was in pain. His voice was still tender. He was as weak as a child, but, in a way, it was poetic. It was a child Von Karma had taken, and a child who would take himself back.

He was saved from the hawkish reporters outside by Franziska's strong will, but once they were inside…

Franziksa helped him into a wheelchair, another insistence from the doctors. She took him to the main entrance, but hesitated suddenly.

"Miles…he's my father," she said. "I can't…"

He squeezed her hand. Franziska was such a proud young woman, but this gentler side of her was wonderful as well. If he had time, he would somehow tell her that. "Don't. You don't need to see, Franziska." The execution room was white and sterile. He waved her away once he saw the men inside.

Wright was there. Why? Did he need to show any more of his shame to that man?

"Miles?" Wright said, looking at him in shock. "I heard Von Karma's execution was changed and I rushed here to—"

"Save it, Wright," he rasped.

For once, Wright bit his words down and only nodded.

The detective was there as well. "Sir," he said softly.

"Help me stand?" Miles was appalled at himself, but he refused to be wheeled in to see Von Karma. The detective was strong enough to help him in, and his large arms were surprisingly gentle.

They walked down the hallway, to the room where…he refused to think about it. Wright held the door.

The first thing he heard was low laughter. "Ah, Miles, you are looking worse for the wear," Von Karma said, eying him from the chair he was still loosely strapped to. Clothed in white, his face was pale and drawn, but still arrogant.

"Your private study caught on fire," Miles said coldly. The detective helped him into a chair, and he tried not to grimace. He held up the battered journal. It still had a faint smell of smoke. "Because of this."

More laughter. "Did you expect anything less, Miles? You foolishly thought I would simply hide the key to my precious documents in plain sight?"

"Regardless," Miles said. He couldn't let Von Karma get the upper hand. Not now. "I wished to speak to you about my father."

Von Karma smiled at him. "Why should I tell you anything? You are nothing to me. Would it not be far better to let myself die without ever revealing anything to you?"

Miles didn't flinch. "I know," he said simply. "I already know." He smiled. "I should have seen it, shouldn't I? How easily you took me in, how much you knew…everything down to your very appearance."

"I have no idea what you refer to, dear Miles," Von Karma said, and his name as like a curse on his lips.

"You had a son, Von Karma." Evidence was the only way to draw out the truth. He strained to see something, anything in the old man's form change. A flicker in his eyes, a clench of his hands…

Von Karma only smiled.

"I found the portrait you destroyed. I've learned that it was of your first son…a son you later disinherited and destroyed." His lips flicked up in a smile. "Because of a woman."

Von Karma's expression never changed. "What a lovely fantasy, Miles. Worthy of a penny dreadful on the bookshelves."

Miles shook his head. He couldn't let Von Karma rile him up. "It's all in here," he said, patting the book. "Including the letter your son wrote to you." Von Karma's eyes narrowed. Miles felt triumph. "You didn't burn it. Awfully sentimental of you." He began to flip through pages. "There are so many of your secrets here, Von Karma. Tell me, did you really destroy that woman's family in court just because she fell in love with your son?"

"And who gave you this knowledge, Miles?" Von Karma said. He was changing the subject. "That old hermit painter? He was a forger. I may have asked a favor or two from him, in exchange for not letting that incompetent Grossberg know."

Miles took the blow without flinching. "The painter is just one of many pieces in this puzzle," he said softly. He knew this. Destroy everything, every shred of credibility and confidence, until the victim broke. He wouldn't break. He couldn't.

"One of your own servants testified that the painting was of your son…one whose name they were forbidden to speak. And when she did, you attempted to strangle her."

"Maria, you mean?" Von Karma's smiled cruelly. "Is that the tale she spun for you, boy? You should know, that old hag was once quite the beauty. Did she ever tell you how she tried to hang herself from the highest tree when her beloved, flighty boy left her?"

Miles went white, his knuckles scraping at the edge of the chair. No. No, he wouldn't listen to these lies. Lies!

"She was hospitalized for weeks, and I believe she even suffered from a miscarriage at the time. No one in the entire town would look her in the face until I graciously took her in as a servant." Manfred scoffed. "I pitied her, and she repays my kindness with lies? Selfish."

"The names all match your records. The dates as well," he tried again. He wouldn't let Von Karma shake him.

"Meaning you've constructed this entire fantasy on the basis of two faulty witnesses and a lot of circumstantial nonsense, right, Miles?"

"The letter, then?" He pulled it out, none-too-gently, with shaking hands. "The one addressed to 'Father'?"

"Who could be anyone," Von Karma countered.

"'I will…give up the name of Von Karma,'" Miles read aloud, triumphantly, eye narrowing. His hand slammed down on the chair. "No matter what you say, the evidence is that you had a son, and no matter how many lies you concoct to hide it, it remains the truth!"

Von Karma's eyes narrowed. "And if I were to believe you, Miles? What would you have me do?"

"Tell me _why_!" Miles snarled. "I saw the marks you gave to Miss Maria for barely saying his name. In your own words, you destroyed an entire family, over this. You've eliminated every record of this son's existence for what?"

"What does it matter to you, Miles?"

"Because I _know_ ," Miles said, his voice going low. "I know that your son was my father!"

A soft gasp from Phoenix, whom he'd almost forgotten was there. The shift of movement from the detective's coat.

Silence.

Slowly, Von Karma raised his chained hands, barely able to tap them together. "Bravo, Miles. Bravo."

"Gregory Von Karma met Victoria Edgeworth in college, and decided to marry her. When you refused him, you proceeded to disown him, destroyed the Edgeworth family, and devote your life to destroying him." Miles felt as if he were suddenly very far away, away form the room and Von Karma. Almost…floating. "But it didn't work. Gregory proudly took the Edgeworth name, and raised me up exactly the way you would have hated — righteous, kind, full of pity and wanting to help. Until you…killed him. And you took me away."

Horror. Sheer horror was overwhelming him, inching through his limbs, cold as ice. Horror for everything he had lost, everything that had been taken from him, because this one man couldn't…

"So, you want proof?" Von Karma's voice was frozen silk, trying to wrap him up and drag him to die at the bottom of the ocean. "You want me to say that this entire story is the truth, Miles?"

"Yes." That horrible, weak, soft voice…was it really his?

Von Karma shook his head. "I will give you nothing." At Miles' barely contained look of shock, he continued, "From the bottom of my heart, I hate you. As I hated your father. I will gladly die before I give you any happiness." A final, triumphant smile. "May you live in torment, Miles. I gave you a chance to make up for the sins your father made, and you betrayed me. You have killed me. Did you think I would forgive you, Miles?"

"No," Miles stammered. "No, I…" He would never know. No, he could. He could find some obscure record, something, anything. But he would never…

He could never defeat Von Karma.  
'  
He could never…  
"Detective, help me up," he said. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not his pride…not his life…

A flash…

"Detective," he said again, his voice oddly calm. The large man was looking at him with pity. That big, dumb, loyal detective… "I am sorry," he whispered, and leaned close, as if he had lost his footing.

Instead, his hands grasped at metal.

Everything blurred. Von Karma's mocking laugh, Phoenix shouting, the pain in his body as he took unsteady steps forward and raised the Detective's gun at Von Karma's face.

His finger brushed the trigger.

A sound like thunder rang in his ears.

A terrible pain flashed across his face, knocking him to the ground. Agony flooded him. He couldn't focus. Moments later — second? Minutes? Hours? He didn't know — when he as finally able to see, he found Phoenix looming over him, his knuckles wet with blood. His own blood, Miles realized, feeling the split in his lip.

People were rushing in. The Detective was on the floor.

He almost started to scream. The Detective had jumped in front of him! He couldn't be…! Phoenix, Phoenix was reaching down to help him up. But the Detective! The Detective was…

He beat at Phoenix's shoulder, cursing with the last raspy remnants of his voice. What had he done? Why had the Detective jumped in the way? Another death. Another guilt. Another…

"Miles!" Phoenix said sharply. "Look." And he pointed.

The Detective groaned. He was slowly was getting up, brushing at a red stain on his arm, brushing away the medics. He was alive. Alive!

Relief washed over Miles. Relief…and fury. "Why?" he shrieked. "Why save him? Why?"

Phoenix dragged him up by the collar, and his body was screaming, screaming, dragged him out the door and in to the hallway, past rushing medics and shouting police officers and Von Karma laughing, laughing…

His back was slammed against the wall. "What the hell was that, Miles?" Phoenix shouted at him.

  
"He killed my father. He killed his own son!" Miles snarled. "Why save him? Why save that bastard from the hell he deserves?"

"He wasn't trying to save Von Karma, Miles. He was trying to save _you_ ," Phoenix said. "Trying to make sure you wouldn't do something you'd regret."

"Save…me?" Miles laughed. Rough, raspy laugh that suddenly fell into a hiccup, a sob. "My father was Von Karma's _son_!" he said hysterically. "He did everything he could to save me, Wright! But I can't escape him. It's in my blood. My _blood_ , Wright!" His eyes were darting around, his pulse racing, but, finally, the sweet oblivion of endorphins was kicking in, sending his battered body on a high. "No matter what I do, I'll always be Von Karma. I'll always be—"

Phoenix's hand connected with his jaw. When he stopped seeing two Wrights, he realized Phoenix was yelling at him. "Blood? Blood, Miles? What does it matter whose blood you have in you?" He shook Miles by the lacy fringe of his cravat. "The Miles I knew stood up for me when I needed him the most. That wasn't Von Karma, Miles! That wasn't _blood_!" He pushed Miles against the wall, holding him in place. "That was because your father raised you to be someone he could be proud of. No matter what blood you had. No matter who your family was. He did everything he could to take you away from Von Karma. To give you a future. To be yourself."

Miles' breath was coming in harsh pants, but Phoenix was finally letting him go. His legs buckled under him, and he sank to the floor. Police officers had stopped shouting, medics frozen in their tracks. Staring. Staring at him, in a bloody, helpless mess.

"You are _you_ Miles. Not Von Karma. Not even your father. You." Phoenix was suddenly hugging him, and he heard…crying. "You're the one who saved me, Miles."

"Wright…" he murmured. "I…"

He passed out.

When he came to, he was unsurprised to find doctors and police camped along his bed. Suicide watch. Possible arrest. Doctors threatening to tie him the bed if he so much as thought of moving for the next week.

He had a lot of time to think…but still, not enough. His thoughts just went in circles.

He feigned sleep when people came to visit. Real sleep was slow in coming, when it came at all, except in exhaustion or drugs.

And Wright…never came. He supposed he was thankful.

When he was finally able to give a report, he did. As he'd slept, the execution had gone as planned. So any criminal charges were dropped, although he was given a severe reprimand and a forced vacation, as well as orders to see a psychiatrist.

He felt numb.

The moment he could get up without the threat of agonizing pain, he'd left. It was surprisingly easy to sneak out, with the guards gone. Ashamed, he called the only number he could.

And yet…the Detective came for him anyway, a white bandage still on his stiffened arm.

Before he left the Detective's car, amid the noise of the airport, he handed the detective a note, and told him only one thing: when they come for me, give them this.

No doubt it would scare them. No doubt it would keep them from following him.

 _Miles Edgeworth chooses death._


	7. Part 7: Epilogue (Some Time Later)

  
He wandered far and wide, in places where the names Edgeworth and Von Karma had no meaning. It was agony, sometimes. And, rarely, happiness.

He could have taken care of himself. He still had a fortune of his own making. He still had Von karma's money. He could have had anything he wanted…but the only salve for him was solitude.

He came to wear gloves, since the burns on his hand had scarred without longer treatment. A small price to pay. His clothes became less flamboyant and more comfortable. He found a stray mutt and gave it some old bread. The stupid dog never stopped following him. He named it "Pest," though it softened slowly into "Pess."

He wandered on foot, on crowded trains, on the backs of cars as a strange drifter.

But always, his thoughts ran in circles.

He thought of old cases. Of the reasons. The alibis. The people. The crimes. So many things, so many details, each one different from the last. Crimes of passion, of fear, of hatred. Witnesses he'd may cry and break down before him, witnesses who were defiant until the end. Those who confessed, and those who adamantly declared their innocence, even as the judge's gavel rang down.

He drifted through the memories, sometimes rejoicing in his role, sometimes ashamed. But it all felt so far away.

Until, one night, lying in what could safely be labeled a 'ditch', gazing at the stars, he suddenly heard, from some place that seemed far away and just on the cusp of memory…

"You saved me, Miles."

Something clicked, suddenly, in his heart, or his mind. He was…Miles. He remembered standing on the top of his desk, making everyone look at him. A boy in blue, crying in the corner, finally stopped sobbing. He held out his hand, from the desk…and the boy took it.

"He did everything he could to take you away from Von Karma. To give you a future. To be yourself."

A future. A…self…

He remembered his father's voice. His face. His hands.

Pity. Understanding. Charity. Help.

Maybe the world wasn't so simple as his father had taught him. After all, there were still the guilty. There were still the remorseless and the mad. There was still…Von Karma. But that wasn't all there was. There were those like Phoenix, too.

Pess jumped up to lick his hand. For a moment, he was frozen. Was this what it meant, to be an Edgeworth and a Von Karma? To have pity tempered with cynicism, empathy that still called for punishment?

He reached for a small, cheap cell phone he kept with him. There was only one number in it.

"Detective?" The voice echoed in the empty countryside. "Yes. I'm coming back."

~~

He wasn't surprised to find them waiting for him. The Detective half-smiled, half-shrugged, as Edgeworth gave him a look.

"You…you foolish fool of a fool!" Franziska screamed at him, hitting his chest with none-too-gentle hands until she finally sniffled. He held her against his chest. There weren't words to apologize to her. She was strong, though. She would forgive him, eventually.

Familiar spiky hair looked at him over her shoulder. "Wright…Phoenix," he said softly. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Phoenix just nodded at him.

With Franziska clinging to him, they walked along the green grass and stone angels. A rainbow of flowers and scents assaulted him from every direction, but he wasn't as bothered by the cacophony as he might have been before.

Manfred Von Karma, the stone tablet read. Wisely, nothing followed but a string of numbers.

For the first time in a long time, with his sister in his arms and Wright by his side, Pess at his feet and the Detective close behind, he wasn't scared.

A soft breeze blew, scattering flower petals, and he moved to pull out the well-worn journal, the one thing he had kept.

He threw it onto the cold stone.

"Rest in peace," he whispered.

Both of you.


	8. Author's Notes (Extended)

  
Author's Notes  
You may or may not want to read my ramblings--I might spoil some parts of the story for you with my musings or point out too many little details I'm arrogantly proud over.

 _A note on the chronology:_  
Game 1 starts in 2016. Phoenix and Edgeworth are 24. Both were born in 1992.  
Flashback case: 2013, Phoenix and Edgeworth are 20.  
DL-6: 2001. Miles is 8, Manfred is 50. (so Franziksa is 2?)  
Manfred is 65 at game start. Born approx. 1951  
Franziska born 1999 (Manfred age 48) (Edgeworth is 6 years older)  
(info from Court Records, all canon)  
Now, here's my little addition:  
Gregory Edgeworth: ???  
\--if we put his age around 28, Gregory was born when he was 20. He would have been born around 1973 (Manfred would have been 22). That's cutting it kind of close, but it can work!!  
So, this flashback starts in 1990, with Gregory in college for fall 1990 and spring 1991, where he meets Victoria. Miles is born in 1992…just enough time for a quick marriage and pregnancy.  
((I'm proud of myself—before I found the timeline on Court Records, I was estimating it would be around 1987. Pretty close, since technically we could place Gregory's birth anywhere from 1969 to 1973 easily, which would lead to this storyline starting as early as 1986.))

 _Von Karma's dairy entries_  
 _111390-1123  
G— is not returning for the brief holiday, preferring to stay and study, rather than indulge in the foolishness of a free day dedicated to the gourmet._  
11-12-90 11:23, so, an entry about Thanksgiving (a "gourmet" holiday, yes?)  
The names, of course: W-- P-- is Winston Payne, M-- G-- is Marvin Grossberg. G-- is Gregory, and V-- E-- is Victoria Edgeworth, of the Edgeworth family.

 _Inspiration_  
The general feel of Gothic horror was my main aim, but here's some more specific stuff:

Part 1: the blacked out painting hidden in the mansion was from Anne Rice's Cry To Heaven, as were bits of the epilogue. The main idea of accepting both birth and the circumstances afterward were an inspiration.  
Biblical references are…from the Bible. I assume you know that. The painting has the story of The Fall of Adam and Eve — Manfred's own little twisted idea of how he felt when his "creations" betrayed him. Why is it on the painting? Artistic liberty with foreshadowing.  
Miss Maria is made up for convenient exposition. There's always some all-knowing servant.

Part 2: The hermit painter? More Gothic trappings of mystery, and a nod to Drew Misham.  
I know nothing about restoring paintings....  
And "The mark of a sinner" is another Biblical reference. Cain, the first murderer, who killed his brother, was said to have been scarred and marked as a murderer on his forehead.  
The evil Von Karma study is a nod to Jane Eyre's Red Room.

Part 3: exploding cabinet was snagged from Death Note. Although Raito didn't have Psyche-Locks on his drawer. Why psyche-locks? Just for show, really. Although it wouldn't surprise me if Von Karma managed to blackmail some poor spirit medium into giving him the best locks in this and the afterworld.  
The diaries are another Gothic trope, as are the expository letters. And the smoke that points out the exact correct diary to take...make of that what you will.

Part 4: LOL, channeling Sephiroth from Final Fantasy VII. You are a clone.

Part 5: all my head-canon. See above.  
And the magical letter that appears in the nick of time to save everything was in Pride and Prejudice and (I think) Jane Eyre, among others.  
"No one exists who cannot be conquered" is a nice line, I think. Especially coming from the perfect Von Karma.  
So, that stuff about the Edgeworth family being well known, but a dead family? I didn't quite square it in my head, but Von Karma did something to disgrace them in court.  
I based Franziska on some of the things from Game 2, notably her concern for Miles and wish for them to stay together.

Part 6: a straightforward court case out of court. Admittedly, I only did minimal reference on burn injuries. Could Miles have even gotten out of the hospital? I really don't know. Just assume he only had, um, second-degree burns. Semi-severe?  
Franziska does not meet Phoenix and the others yet.  
And...well...I wanted to leave it semi-ambiguous as to whether Miles had found the truth or was just being, well, insane, as Von Karma said it. So...I dunno, you can choose?

Epilogue: and tying it all back in to canon. Pess is Edgeworth's dog, according to one of the producers. And everything else is just a slightly skewed version of the games.  
End.


End file.
